


Speaking From the Heart

by TvSoup



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A kinder gentler universe, Alternate Universe - Noir Magic AU, Cole is missing, Fae Machinations, Friendly insulting banter, Gavin Abuse, Gun Violence, I mean he was married once, Kamski is mean, Low key body horror, M/M, Magic WW1 was not fun, Panic Attacks, Past Hank Anderson/Original Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pretty much all the character appear once, Sickening sweet ending, The Noir Romcom nobody wanted, obvious flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 15:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TvSoup/pseuds/TvSoup
Summary: In 1938 P.I. Anderson may be the best of the best but even he struggles to find a consistent case load when all his competitors use magic and he won't go near the goddamned stuff. Maybe this new case involving the disappearance of magically made servants is a change of luck. Or maybe he should have listened to his instincts.





	1. Rent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhania/gifts).



> The Lovely Peachtipple has done artwork for this piece please check it out!!   
> https://peachtipple.tumblr.com/post/182483331424/speaking-from-the-heart-hankcon-big-bang-2018-fic

It’s 4:38 on a Friday afternoon in a matchbox office that rents for three dollars a week. It’s filled with borrowed furniture, a dented file cabinet, a cheap wooden desk with a wobble that had finally put a old police manual to use, three sagging chairs, a failing lamp, and blinds that existed only in appearance not in function. Hank Anderson PI sits cramped behind the desk that is covered in scattered bills. He is a greyed giant of a man in a rumped suits with an objectively ugly tie and a beaten to hell hat resting next to him on the desk. 

He lets out a sigh. When he had planned his budget for the month there had been an expectation of some sort of income. But it had been an clientless month, even with Hank’s conservative planning, he was left in the red. Damn it, man’s gotta eat, his dog too. He could practically hear Fowler, “You know it’s your own damn fault you’re so in debt. What sort of moron goes into the competitive market when you don’t even use magic?” Hank grins at himself, hey well, he’s not a garbage investigator. 

Hank chokes briefly when the voice continues.

“Hey dumbass! Are you going to keep grinning at your desk like a moron or are you going to respond?” 

Fowler sat with his arms crossed in a wheelchair by the doorway of Hank’s office. Fowler had been a friend through the police academy and then through the war. The Great War had taken his leg and with it his career as a police officer. Hank is lucky to have him as a landlord for his office. No one else would have put up with his bullshit this long. 

“Get off my ass, Fowler. There’s no point in taking money troubles personally. It’s 1938; everyone has money troubles.”

“Ha. Ha. Pay your damn rent.” Fowler has an opened envelope in his lap as he wheels towards the side of the desk. He watches Hank eye it with suspicion.  

“You got more mail, jackass.”

Hank looks at the envelope, he didn’t think he could read the letter when he already knew what was in it. 

“You opened my mail?” Hank grins but he knows that it is weak,“That's a federal offense, Jeffrey.”

Jeffery doesn’t try to return the grin, “He didn’t find anything in Bakersfield.”

Hank thought he had kept himself from hoping but the news still hits him like a blow. 

“Hank, I know the sources were good there and this is a setback but Molly and Col-”

“Jeffrey, how about we don’t do this now.” Hank resents the way his voice is sharp. Hank appreciates that Fowler just nods in response, grimacing sympathetically as Hank slides the letter into his jacket. 

There’s a knock at the door and Hank isn’t surprised when Chris leans in. Chris lives in the neighborhood and Fowler made Hank take him on to help Chris prep for the police academy. Hank tries to not feel guilty about the fact that beyond dealing with assholes and paperwork he wasn’t sure how much of his experience here would actually be of use. 

“Uh, Mr. Anderson?” Chris has his ‘I’m a working professional face on’ but his delight was peeking through with a small smile. Whatever it is, Hank isn’t in the mood. 

“What.”

“You got uh some clients.” Shit. Nevermind. 

Hank gives Chris a short nod and watches as he escorts in three people, who couldn't be more startlingly different from each other. 

The first is a rat-faced man with an air of condescension and nondescript black suit, following him is a woman who is a few inches taller than Ratface. Her walk is regal, back perfectly straight, a dress so white that Hank feels self conscious about the amount of stains that his shirts are probably hiding. Its then her hair catches his attention. It seems like her hair color is shifting subtly but then Hank realizes that the colors are playing throughout parts of her dark hair with the occasional highlight of bright iridescence. After a moment, a similar pattern plays across her cheek bones and face. 

So, not human then.

The last person is a young man, who looks like he had been summoned straight from a magazine both in fashion and looks. His expression is so honest and ‘can do’ that it isn’t a stretch that he is an accountant that the others kidnapped off the street. As he walks in, he observes the office with earnest curiosity but without the judgement that mars the other two faces. However, he winks at Hank when he looks up from inspecting the bookshelf and makes eye contact. Hank flushes hot on the back of his neck, but before he could sort through his bemusement or his embarrassment, the other man is introducing everyone. 

“-am Dick Perkins from Pinkerton’s, this,” Ratface gestures to the woman behind him, “is Amanda of the Seelie Court. We’re here on behalf of the Taliesin Vitae. It's  _ the _ guild for high arcane users, you may have heard of it.” 

The grand goddamned guild of charlatans in his shit office. Hank is tempted to throw them out just to dodge whatever trouble they are bringing to his business. But any complaints Hank might have, need to be put on hold. Now is not the time to turn down any checks. He could wait until after he hears their case to make rash decisions. Hank nods at Chris and Fowler as they quietly leave the room.

It takes a moment, as Perkins pulls up the chair for Amanda, to realize that he isn’t introducing the winking-accountant. 

“And him?” 

“I’m Connor. I’m a construct and am here to assist.”

Neither Perkins nor Amanda look at Connor.

It's been some time since Hank felt so completely out of his element. Great. He loves these people, can’t wait for them to leave.

“So he’s a- a what?”

Perkins manages to look even more condescending, “Think of it like a more improved Homunculus; a magical servant.”

Perkins misses the withering look he receives from Amanda. 

Hank needs to move this along, “So, ah, how can I help you folks?” 

Perkins speaks as he sits up straight, “Guild Taliesin Vitae is currently my client for security matters. However there is an  _ issue _ ,-” The way Perkins says the word made it clear that too often people and ‘issues’ were interchangeable terms. “-that due to my well-known association, I can’t deal with myself-” 

Amanda barely raises a hand and Perkins cuts himself off. She speaks like she is doing Hank a favor rather than asking him to take on a job.  

“We’d like to hire you, despite your perhaps more  _ unconventional  _ methods” Jesus, ‘unconventional methods’, like  _ not  _ shooting lighting out your hands was abnormal. 

Amanda reaches behind her to take a manila folder that Connor is already handing her. From that she pulls a ripped piece of paper out and places it on the desk. Hank takes the pause to grab a scratch pad and a pen but stops when he sees what’s on the paper. Hank has had enough experience with the criminal world’s magic users to know that he is looking at runes but beyond that… 

“Ma’am, I’m not reall-”

“I am aware of your lack of magical expertise. It should not be an issue.” 

Hank raises both eyebrows. 

“If this was something to be solved by purely magic, I would have solved this  _ myself _ . What I am hiring you to do is what you have been recommended for, to use your investigative skills to track down who is spreading this symbol. That is your job.” 

She pulls out a check, placing it on top of the paper and pushes both closer to Hank with her fingertips. Hank nearly chokes when he sees the figures on it: three thousand dollars. 

Oh, what the hell sort of job is this? He makes sure to look at it flatly before replying. 

“So... What else am I doing for you?” 

Amanda hesitates, “What?” If she thinks that is all the information he needed, Hank is going to need a drink, .

“Don’t assume I’ll take the job when I don’t even have a single clue what  **that** does,” Hank gestures at the symbol on the table. “especially when I’m supposed to find who made it in the first place. I can’t do my job if you’re not on the level.” 

Perkins rolls his eyes before giving Amanda a glance,“Don’t worry about the symbol, Luddite.” Hank is beginning to suspect that Perkins had been dared once that he couldn’t get people to dislike him in under five minutes and had taken it as a life goal instead. He was like a badly written trope from predigested pulp fiction.

“It won't affect  _ you _ .” 

Perkins then gestures to Connor in the corner, who was still generating an aura of pleasant vagueness. 

“Rather it’s made to influence constructs. I’m sure you’re not very up to date on the market for magical servants but constructs are the newest ‘Ritzy’ magic thing.” Perkins quickly glances again at Amanda’s stoic expression before continuing, “So the fact that when constructs come into contact with the symbol, there is a high chance of them just up and disappearing? You can see how that’s troubling for my clients.”

Hank writes down some notes before looking up, “So this is a theft?” It is hard to not let some disbelief leak into his question; he had seen the magical servants that Perkins is talking about both in clients’ houses and on the front. Every single one of them had had something  _ off _ about them. They were always too stiff or too unresponsive or too unaware of their surroundings. Dropping grenades on themselves unaware. Connor standing in the back was nothing like any of them; a little socially awkward, sure, but definitely not a knock-off of a human being. 

Perkins replies with a perfunctory nod. 

And from there Hank is finally back on solid ground. He runs Perkins and Amanda through the opening questions and is able to get a better picture of the situation. The first person that Hank needs to get into contact with is Grand Enchanter Allen. Jesus, the titles these assholes give themselves. Hank isn’t really looking forward to talking to him since he had heard some real shit on the grape vine. 

Hank catches himself, he’s thinking about this like he is already working on it and that is usually a good sign that he’s going to take the case. It's hard to not allow another glance at the check on the table. 

Both clients are irritatingly unsurprised when he accepts the case. 

Perkins added, “Please feel free to update your… attire.” Perkins eyes Hank’s tie critically. 

Hank’s irritation is only aggravated when Amanda’s last minute “request” throws Hank for a major loop. 

“What do you mean he’s coming?”

Connor stands in the corner watching both parties like they weren’t discussing him, and Hank has to take a deep breath to make sure he doesn’t start shouting just from Hank feeling offended  _ for _ Connor.

“Nowhere in your job description did you even hint that you were going to saddle me with him.”

“ _ It _ will be there to help you with any magic that you may come across. Please don’t pretend that you won’t need its help, should you find yourself against a strong magic user.” 

Hank makes sure he doesn’t roll his eyes, lest they roll right out of his sockets. 

Perkins pulls out a cigarette case made out material far above a gumshoe’s pay grade. Before Hank can really speculate more, his line of thought is derailed as Perkins snaps his fingers and lights the end of his cigarette. Hank flinches as the sudden acrid smell of the aggressive magic fills the room. Apparently Ratface took great pleasure out of other’s discomfort.  

“Lay off. And what if he gets bit by the rune? Then what, am I going to be held responsible?” 

Amanda’s voice cuts through, “He will not defect.”

Hank expects her to continue but she doesn’t. 

“Oh yeaah, I mean, that’s a great vote of confidence but-”

“He **will** ** _not_** defect.” Her face goes even more stony and there is no room for disagreement.

Perkins seems to sense the impasse, “and if it goes missing or gets damaged, you won't be held liable.”

Hank finds himself having to ignore the holes being drilled in him from Amanda’s gaze. 

“Can I get that in writing?”

Perkins sniffs as if the request is a faux pas, “I’ll have it put into the contract.”

Hank feels his chance at doing this job without a chaperon go up in smoke. 

“Fine.”

It's hard to feel bitter about it when Connor lights up like it’s suddenly Christmas.

“Okay, so let's go find who been spreading this...” Hank glances at the rune “R-A and a nine, I guess, looking symbol and find out where it came from.”

Hank doesn’t need to see him to know that Ratface looks like he just ate a whole lemon, “I mean I suppose  _ you _ might call that a nine”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -If you think I'm going to make a whole bunch of dislikable characters a part of the mages guild, so it’s easier to hate them? I'm insulted and you are 100% correct.
> 
> -In 1930s 3,000 is equivalent to about 45 thousand dollars today


	2. Door

“Grand Enchanter” oh screw it. Mr. Allen was one of the first in the guild to have some of his constructs give him the slip. Mr. Allen had been frustrated enough to get his hands dirty and try to find some answers for himself. 

Which makes him Hank’s first stop. Well, whenever his useless car decides to start. Hank pushes his hat back from his forehead as he circles around his several times used Model T, kicks it in the radiator, and cranks the engine again. When he gets back into the car to give it one more try, Hank is sitting next to Connor, who is being more than patient.

He’s an odd duck. Hank really couldn’t get a read on him. Not when Connor swings wildly between hyper-competent whenever Hank asks about the guild or constructs to an almost childish curiosity and enthusiasm about the mundane.

Honestly he’s refreshing to talk to. 

The image of Connor winking at him then hits him like a sledgehammer and Hank opens his mouth like the raging moron he is.

“Why did you do that” Hank made a vague gesture at Connor’s face “thing?” Nice. Smooth, Hank.

“Do what?”

Hanks tries the gas again to see if the motor will actually start, trying to ignore the flush that’s creeping up his neck with a vengeance, “You know, when you came into the office. You winked at me.” He finishes lamely and the car sputters.

“Is that not what humans do?” Connor looks thoughtful, as if mulling the moment over again.

And goddamnit, Hank isn’t sure if that made it worse or better.

“I mean yeah humans wink, but we really don’t wink when we first meet people, at least not at folks who look like me.” 

Narrowing his eyes in confusion, Connor continues his interrogation of social niceties.

“Why would I not wink at you?”

Hank lurches oddly which has him unintentionally twisting the keys, and leaning on the gas. The car chooses then to started up with a horrifying grinding noise and Hank has never been more thankful for an interruption in his life.

“Detective?”

Hank ignores Connor's attempt to have him address his question, even if his new “partner” looks equal parts alarmed and concerned. 

“Let's get this show on the road!”

The house is a monument to decadence. A modernised Victorian styled house on top of a lawn that could maybe hold six of Hank's small cottage. Hank can’t help marvel as they pull into the drive.

Something was off. 

As they approached the house, the bitter smell of ozone has Hank grasping for a rifle he knew wasn’t there. He pushes his hand against the door and it swings open, unlocked. The state of the hall confirms what he already knows: there has been a fight here. It hasn’t gone well if the scorch marks on the wall are anything to go by. 

Connor steps forward only for Hank's hand to swing out and grab him automatically. They made eye contact for a beat.

“Stay behind me,” and Hank is gratified when he gets a nod and a swift following of instructions. Maybe they could make this work.

The house is empty and overall in good shape beside the trail of magical burn marks and residue leading to the upstairs. After a brief inspection of the lower rooms, which renders nothing but a dropped book and a spilled coffee cup, they follow the damage upstairs. Checking room to room slowly, Hank finds himself wondering where the hell all the reported construct servants were, only to hear the thought echoing back from behind.

“The rest of his magical servants appear to be… missing.”

Hank lets out a snort, “The real question is did they leave because of the rune or under their own steam.”

“What would prompt them to leav-” Hank opens the door to the master bedroom and the body on the floor provides one hell of answer to Connor's trailing off question.

Bedding thrown and ripped, end tables split in half, a burn mark the size of Hank arm that jaggedly runs up the wall, the room looks like a bomb had gone off in it. The Grand dead body of ‘Enchanter’ Allen lying in a crumpled heap certainly doesn't help that impression, either. Hank gives Connor a quick glance, but he seems to be holding up fine. His face holds only the expression of grim determination rather than anything to suggest that he is going lose his nerve. 

Hank doubles back down the stairs, calls the police and reports a murder before he hustles back up the stairs. He's not leaving without forwarding his own investigation first. He’s thankful that Allen was sensible enough to keep a phone on the premises. Hank can't even begin to understand mages who thought they could shun all technology.  

Hank's brain proceeds to have traffic jam when he opens the door to the bedroom.

“Ugh, what the hell are you doing?”

Never in Hank's fifty-three years did he expect that he would be explaining to a fully grown looking magical being on why sticking foreign mystical substances in his mouth should be considered a “bad idea” but here he is.

Hank is sure that if he just listens to Connor's explanation about arcane absorption and magical echoes, that it would all make sense but all he has to do is look at Connor's bright face and Hank could practically hear ‘Getting poisoned sounds like an interesting and fun experience’. Hank has no intention of letting the damned sap off himself out of curiosity.

Hank gives the room a shake down and it doesn’t offer much beyond the body, a mess, and slightly dejected Connor, but there were two doors. Swinging one open, Hank found himself being hauled back with a startled squawk before he could even take a step.

“Connor! What the hell?” 

“Look.” Hank follows Connor’s gesture and could suddenly sees the scrawled writing that wrapped around the threshold of the door.  _ Mages and their Goddamned wards. _

“I wouldn’t touch that.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Connor gives no response, confidently walking back into the center of the room, before crouching and whispering something into the floorboards.

“Hey, uh- what are you-” As Hank speaks, Connor slowly stands up with a faint light trailing after his hand as he raises it. “-...doing?”

“You'll have to excuse me, Detective. I’m going to make sure there are no other potentially dangerous wards in the room. I would like to ensure our ability to investigate can be done safely.”

“Uh, that's good.” 

Hank has no way to help with that and he finds himself glancing back through the door. It has to be the private study, with what looks like enough magical equipment to level several city blocks. 

_ Jesus. Christ. Mages.  _

Hank takes a minute, pondering the inevitability of humans screwing with shit beyond their comprehension and pitying the DCPD magical detention department’s future suffering. 

Overall the room looks undisturbed, so that is a good thing.

Sighing, Hank takes a step back, stopping when he hears the crinkle of paper. Looking down he can see underneath his boot is a small pile of partially burnt 5x5 pieces of paper. Huh. Casting Paper? Undisturbed but maybe not for lack of trying. 

His eye catches on one of the papers that has a fraction of a watermark, a sloppy mistake and something that may work in his favor. He pockets it for later. 

“Hey, Connor.”

“A moment, please, Detective Anderson.” Hank twists to get a look at Connor, who is unspooling a thin thread of light between well-sculpted hands. Frankly he looks beautiful, there really wasn’t any other way to say it. With his eyes downcast, he would look serene if not for the fact that his eyes are rapidly blinking every few seconds, dark full lashes that contrast against his pale cheeks. It is interesting to see how different casting is for a magical being versus a human mage. All the professional mages that Hank had suffered through have been loud, over the top, arrogant, domineering, or too often all of the above. Connor, in contrast, seems to have a quiet natural right to magic. He isn’t trying to be magical, he just  _ is.  _ Connor finally looks up as he snaps both hands causing the light to dissipate into the air. 

“Detective?”

Hank realizes he is staring, “Ah, yeah. Uh, These. You know what these do?”

They take a minute as Connor carefully looks over all the casting papers. Unsurprisingly he doesn’t recognize the watermark. 

“I will have to put some of these in my mouth.”

“Oh, what the hell, Connor!”

Connor wins that round, and Hank does have to admit that it is satisfying to know that his hunch was solid. Someone _ had _ been trying to get in. Hello, motive. Nothing like a murder to make a theft case easier, Christ.The downside is that now Hank can mentally picture Connor eating burnt paper with astonishing ease. 

Hank realizes he’s grinning. This is fun, actually fun. Hank doesn’t he’s ever had this much fun in an investigation. He can’t help his immediate wince at the thought, several decades of learning to ignore dead bodies may have something to do with that.  

Hank distracts himself by scribbling the important details into his notebook when another thought occurs. 

“Hey, can you document these?”

Connor hesitates, “With a pen and paper?”

“What, like a glorified secretary? No, with your arcane hand gesture shit.”

“That’s still a documentation.” Hank can practically see Connor gearing up for whatever comment he was about to make, “So you want a ‘glorified  _ magical _ secretary,’ then.” 

Surprised, Hank barks out a laugh, throwing his head back far enough he has to grab his hat, “Suppose you called me on that, with a joke no less. Shit, kid, sure. Could you be a glorified  _ magical _ secretary for a second?”

Hank catches a warm expression aimed at him that he couldn’t quite define, but then what he said seems to register, and Connor’s expression shifts into something nervous. Hank isn’t sure what resolved his inner turmoil, but before he has a chance to take back the request, Connor pulls a sheet of paper from Hank’s notebook. Holding the sheet up and pulling back his hand, a perfect image of the room slowly appeared on the paper.

Hank grins, “You have a head on your shoulders and you can take photos with your goddamn hands!  You ever getting a calling to do detective work and I'll have to call it, and retire.” 

Connor smiles oddly with too much teeth and some amount of pride.

“I think it would be significantly less interesting to do this without you.” 

Hank clamps his mouth shut. What the hell is a grown man suppose to say to that?

Thankfully Connor easily segues into what his scan of the wards has discovered, and found something that could be more magical activity by the murderer. This how Hank finds himself squished shoulder to shoulder with Connor as he looks into the closet, mouth hanging open. Clothing is ripped from their hangers and the wall are  _ covered _ in the RA9 looking runes. In the far back wall of the closet is one drawing of the rune, slightly larger than the rest, the lines of the rune are burnt into the wall and sparks still igniting and fading in the darkened wood. 

“Sweet Jesus.”

Connor magically takes another picture right before they both could hear sirens in the distance. 

Hank watches through the window as squad cars grind to a stop against the gravel drive. More than a few cops walk in and Hank knew the gait of the walk of the main detective even from this distance. After a minute, DCPD Detective Gavin Reed makes his way into the room.

“Hey you shitty four-flusher, don’t you have clients to screw for a drink?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank could see Connor freeze in confusion.

“Hello to you, too, Detective Reed.”

Gavin aggressively keeps walking until he is far too close to the both of them, which only underlined exactly how much smaller he is in comparison. 

“You think if I just... go ahead and arrest you right now that maybe I could make you lose out on any payday?”

Dealing with Gavin usually isn’t an issue as long as Hank could tamp down on his expressions, Gavin could make a fire from nothing. 

“No such luck, I ain’t on a timer on this one.”

Gavin let out a hum, before eyeing Connor with contempt.

“Who's this overdressed prick? You trying to balance out your fashion tastes, Hank?”

Connor looks at Gavin and replies like he had asked him about the weather. He is so much more stilted now than 15 minutes ago. 

“I’m Connor, and I’m a construct here to assist with Detective Anderson’s investigation.”

Gavin goes sickly sweet, the way he goes when he thinks he has you in the corner.

“No shit! Hank, you went and picked up a goddamn Pinocchio? I trusted you!” 

“Ha ha Gavin, he’s the client’s fire-extinguisher. Lay off.”

“Gone so low, clients don’t even trust you, huh? Hank?”

“Oh beat it, I know my own onions.”

Connor looks for a moment like he wants to ask Hank something but Gavin gives a snort.

“Dry up and clear off. You got anything that will convince me not pinch you both?”

“Yeah, don’t go into the study, the thing is warded up to the nines.”

“Yeah?” Gavin says it like he had heard a challenge where there had been none, and shoves Connor as hard as he could. Sending him straight through the magical barrier behind him.

Before he knows what he is doing, Hank follows Connor, reaching out, his hand  _ just  _ coming into contact as Connor falls through the wards.

It feels like getting hit with a souped up cattle prod and God only knows exactly what the spell is even doing to them. He can feel his ears pop and his head swims under the sudden shifting pressure behind his eyes.  

It is funny how memory works. Hank feels a pull and a rush of a current. And from that he’s recalling perfectly the smell of burning bodies and pervasive ozone through a nose clogged with mud. Hearing in his left ear completely blown out from shell that had exploded just  _ right there. Where was his goddamned rifle _ . His hand spasmodically curls in askance but it neatly grabs Connor's wrist instead. 

When he looks up, his heart freezes in his chest, Connor’s skin is unraveling from his face and where it is falling away Hank can see wood grain and the metal in the hinge of his jaw. His eyes are completely dead in their sockets. 

Then Hank blinks.

And Connor is flesh and blood once again as they land in a heap on the threshold.

“Jesus Christ, Gavin. What in the hell did you do that for?” Hank bellows, scrambling to his feet and pulling Connor up with him.

“You slay me! A month ago you would have laughed at breaking some mage’s Pinocchio. Here I thought we could have a giggle and maybe I  _ wouldn’t  _ have to rough you up when I take you in-” Gavin is on the floor and unconscious before he could even finish the sentence and Connor, who had gone from being helped up to charging Gavin, looks stunned. His hand smoking. 

“I- I attacked a human…”

Gavin is still breathing, so the situation couldn’t be too bad as far as Hank is concerned.

“I mean, yeah, that  _ is _ pretty unfortunate, isn’t it?” Hank easily steps over Gavin’s body.

“Detective Wilson!” A young black man leans around the door and Hank can tell the moment that he spots the body.

“What the hell-”

“Your partner seems to have touched something he shouldn’t have and got into an accident!” Hank’s cheerful tone immediately slows the young man’s hand to the pistol in his holster.

“Isn’t that unfortunate for him? Touching magical items without following proper protocol means that he’ll have to be taken off duty for a least a week for observation and testing. They’ll probably even have to put a new detective on the case with you.” 

Hank can’t stop the grin on his face from forming.

“Isn’t that just too bad?”

Detective Wilson quietly surveys Reed before he looks up at Hank,“Yeah it is isn’t it? Reaaal unfortunate for him. I better call this in.” 

And with that he slowly walks out the door, leaving Hank to quickly escort a still stunned Connor out of the house and down to the car. 

“Bless the Detroit City Police Department.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I̛̜͍͚̹̩̪͍̗̘̣͂̌́̓̈́̚͡ ķ̘̞̞̙͎̰͉̬̔͆͋͐̇̓͋̕͘͢n̨͈̪̗̩̤̋͑̒̑̆̒̚o̵̢̼̼̤͓̮̔̒͒͂̌̊w̧̼̤̮͎̹̆̽̍̋͛ m̧͔͓̞̘̖̱̤͖̿͋̉͗̒͡y̸͇̝̰͕̻̅̊̓̍̕͢͡ͅ ǫ̛̞͈̭̞͇͚̑̔̍̓͐̊͛͟ẁ̳̮͈͎̥̮͍̓̽̀̄̌͠n͇̤̝͔̰̮̆̊̿͋̽̌͢͞ Ǫ͈͕̲̹͕̻̎̎͆͑̿̈́͘ͅn̷̡̢̡͕̩̅̊͊̈͘į͎̣̗̙̒̏̋̓̎̾̚͟͟͝͞͞ō̧̲͖̻̻̹̹̲͍̈́̆̋̂̈́͘̚ņ͈̙̻͓͋͌̾̌̎̈͐͗̏̿s͙̣̣͇͈͍͂̆̓̃̏́͆̏̎̚͜


	3. Rest

Hank piles Connor into the car and begins the belabored ritual of starting it up. He just hopes the car will cooperate in getting them away before the rest of the force arrives.

“Detective.”

“Call me Hank.” He calls as he cranks the engine’s motor.

“Hank”

“What.”

“What does “Know my onions” mean?”

Hank breathlessly laughs, “Don’t tell me I’m getting that outdated with my words.”

“I would not be well-informed of their timeliness. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with many of the phrases I have heard people say.”

That brings Hank up short, “Oh yeah right, sorry about that. I didn’t think about the fact that you’re technically pretty new around here.”

Hank removes the hand crank and pulls himself into the driver's seat.

“Uh, when I said I know my onions, I meant I know what I’m about.”

Connor’s blank look has Hank rapidly amending his statement as he starts the car with thankfully little issue, “It means that I’m uh informed and ug- it means I know what I’m doing.” 

“Oh, I see.” There is a pause, “What does calling me a fire-extinguisher mean?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” 

Hank drives them back to the office while Connor runs him through 20 questions. The next thing he knew he's braking the car suddenly at Connor’s sharp intake of breath mid-question.

“What-” The question dies in his throat, Connor is looking at his hand which has his flesh slowly unraveling, revealing the wooden segment of his fingers that had been beneath. 

Just like it had back at the house. 

“Jesus!” Hank jerks the steering wheel until they were by the side of the road. He has no idea what he is doing but he’s reaching out and grabbing Connor’s hand.  

“How do I hel-”

When their hands make contact he can barely hear another of Connor’s sharp gasps over the feeling of pressure and  _ things  _ forcefully shifting in Hank’s head and the same pull and rush that hit Hank back at the house. 

Hank and Connor both rip their hands apart, and a glance confirms that Connor looks as startled as Hank feels. Then there is a moment where they just watch as the flesh reforms on Connor’s hands until there is not a glimpse of wood left.

Hank finds himself whispering rapidly, “What the- Why did me touch- Did I- What is-” He forces himself to pause and swallow, “What should we do? Should I take you to Amanda?”

“No!” Connor nearly shouts, startling them both. “No, I can figure this out. I just need- I just need some time.”

Hank watches Connor who was twitching a little and badly pretending to be studying his hands.

“Okay.” A new plan is forming. “Okay, then I’m taking you home and you can meet my dog.” 

That seems to get Connor’s attention. 

“I like dogs.” Connor says in a way that made Hank doubt that he has ever even seen a dog in his life. No time like the present to fix that. 

Hank pulls back out into the street and glances into the mirror. That's when he notices the car. A souped up roadster is behind them, far enough that it would have probably taken Hank another fourth of the drive to actually spot that it was tailing them if he hadn’t pulled over. 

He thumbs the steering wheel, considering his options. 

“Hey Connor. You think your good for an illusion?”

Connor looks up alarmed.

“I think so, but what do you need an illusion for?”

“There’s a car about a block behind us, it's tailing- uh following us.” Connor doesn’t shift in his seat to turn around but rather glances discreetly out the side mirror for a moment. Smart kid. 

“I see it.”

“I’m gonna to try and lose him but the whole process would be much easier if-”

“Understood.” Connor nods and sit forward at attention. 

Hank feels a thrill of adrenaline that he rides out. 

He waits until he sees a familiar road with a dilapidated brick building, which will block sight of them, and makes an unexpected fast and tight right turn. 

Well, as fast as the car could actually go, not that it should matter when the other car is still maintaining its distance a block away. 

From there it’s reflex. Hank makes another right, driving fast down a skinny alley. He could see the car break hard and back up when it spotted them and it’s hard to not grin like a idiot, as the wider newer car is forced to slow to make its way down the alley.  As soon as they exit the alley, Hank pulls them into the first parking spot he can find. 

Both of Connor’s hands fly forward before Hank can even pull the brake up. His hands stop abruptly like he was pressing against glass, and Hank can feel how the air shifts. 

“Please limit your movements, Detective.”

Hank is sure he meant to reply to that, but it gets lost as he watches Connor, with smooth beautiful motions, casually bend reality. It's hard to not laugh or maybe cry when Hank realizes that he  _ has never seen a dog before _ . 

Something is wrong.

Connor’s fingertips are starting to grain, and Hank can see a slight tremor in his arms. Hank has never really been one for throwing himself in magical and, by extension, dangerous situations; The War had literally blown away any sense of curiosity he may have had about magic. And yet, Hank reaches out and gently touches Connor’s wrist. 

It's amazing how simple and easy it is to do. 

Even though Hank knew what was coming, it feels like he’s dropped into an unbelievably strong current. His field of vision narrows and his hearing seems to go for a minute. The world slides away sideways.

But there no smell of death, no smell of ozone, no bitterness in the air. Rather only the vague sense of being near water. 

Hank blinks when he feels Connor lift his hand and lets go of it. 

Connor looks… worried.

“The car passed us, Detective.”

It feels like everything's coming in and out of focus or maybe like Hank had dead spirinted up several flights of stairs. Or both. All Hank can manage in response is a feeble,

“It’s Hank.” 

When Hank can finally really look at Connor, there is an understanding in the gaze.

Get home, and figure out what the hell was going on.

The drive from there is forgettable.

-

They pull the car into a small shack that Hank uses as a garage and Hank locks it up as more of a formality than anything else.

The house is a small little cottage, years into needing repairs but Hank likes to think that it looks loved at least. Still.  

Hank sorts through his keys and walks towards the house, and as he approaches the door, he can already hear the click of nails on wood from inside. 

When they get inside, Sumo is already wagging delightedly. It’s impossible to ignore, and Hank finds himself squishing Sumo’s face and ruffling his fur around his ears before he calls over his shoulder.

“Stopped paying for electrical a while ago, too expensive. I hope you don’t need that to figure things out.”

“No.” Connor says simply, Hank can see him looking around curiously. Doing them both a favor Hank starts opening curtains, letting the afternoon light in. 

When Hank glances back at Connor, he can see Connor sort of, Jesus, following Hank’s handling of Sumo. He squishes Sumo’s face and awkwardly moves his fur around. Bless Sumo who just sits there patiently, soaking up the attention. After that Connor settles in and begins pulling things out of his coat and setting up on the coffee table a number of little candles, runes, and odd fantastical-looking bobbles. But he freezes halfway through the process.

“Hank.”

“Yeah.” 

Sumo has moved away from Connor and has trapped Hank behind the couch against the window, requiring Hank to slowly shuffle forward until the lovable idiot gets the message and begins backing up. 

“Why are you not more upset that I attacked the Detective?”

“I-” 

Connor barrels right over him. 

“I’m a magical servant and for me to attack someone I could potentially serve... That isn’t troubling?”

“I mean not really? Gavin assaulted us both and was threatening us with more absolute baloney when you knocked him out. You’ve done nothing to suggest that you  _ wouldn’t  _ defend yourself. You did nothing I wouldn’t have done.”

Connor speaks almost petulantly, “But you didn’t strike him.”

“Connor. I was like three seconds away from knocking him into next week, at least you doing it gave us an opening to leave.”

“Oh.” Connor tilted his head in consideration. 

Hank proceeds to let Connor be, going to the kitchen to throw some sort of a late lunch or maybe early dinner together. 

“You interested in uh, bread with some… cheese? I think I have a can of beans somewhere.” Hank searches through the cupboard.  He needed buy groceries. He had been planning to make it through the week on what was left over, having company hadn’t been in consideration. He had sent so much of this month’s allowance to the gumshoe check out Bakersfield, damn California for being so damn big and costly. 

“Thank you Hank, but I don’t require food.”

“Egh.  Sorry. I don’t often run with glitter folk. I don’t suppose I can get you anything else?” He can practically feel Connor quietly mouthing out ‘glitter folk’, as Hank puts the bread and cheese on a plate. He can at least pretend to be presentable. 

The extra cuttings of food gets cleared off into the bowl and presented to Sumo who is pressing against Hank’s legs again. Connor tries for a smile as Hank walks into the living room. Hank is _pretty_ _sure_ those are genuine smiles. Connor is just really, _really_ bad at it.  

“No, thank you. This space is more than enough.”

Hank watches Connor go into what could only be called a meditative state, his eyes finally falling shut after a few minutes. The silence with company is... pleasant as Hank finishes eating and cleans up. When he makes his way back from the kitchen, he pulls the envelope and the casting paper from the house out of his coat. He dumps the casting paper on the table before pulling out a box from one of the overflowing bookcases, and dropping the letter in with all the other failed attempts.

“What are those?” Connor’s voice makes Hank jump. Connor is still sitting at the coffee table, eyes still closed. 

“That’s creepy, Connor.”

“Apologies, Detective.”

“You don’t have switch back to titles, it's still just Hank.” Hank slides the box back into the bookcase, and moves back to the couch as Connor eyes flutter open to look at him. The question is still  present in Connor’s gaze. 

“It’s personal, alright? I-” The strain, of what was quickly becoming a year, snuck up on him. He couldn’t even open the envelopes by himself anymore, there was so many failures and attempts at gentle let downs. Without Hank’s permission, he finds himself saying, “My family is missing.”

He watches Connor freeze up a little and Hank expected empty platitudes, “I’m extremely sorry, Detect- Hank. I can’t imagine what that is like. But I could- After… after we finish this case, maybe I could offer my assistance.”

Hank has to wait a minute before replying with barely controlled emotion.

“Thanks.”

Hank hamfistedly moves them on to a lighter discussion, and Connor is overwhelmingly kind through it all. Soon the conversation naturally slows, and Connor goes back to whatever magical scan he was doing and lets his eyes close again.

After trying to make at least the living room presentable, Hank settles into one of the armchairs with Sumo at his feet. He’s pretty sure he grabbed something by Hammett to read, but he didn’t look at the title. He's more than content to let time slip past, the desire for the whiskey hidden under the sink dulled by having company. As it grows dark, Hank lights two of the lanterns then the stove, and he cooks dinner. 

Connor, throughout all of this, just sits next to the table, eyes closed and  _ stays _ that way even as Hank closing the book with no real sense of what happened in it. Hank finds himself holding a lantern staring at him, unsure.

“I’m, uh, going to go to bed. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. You can put the lantern out.” Connor doesn’t bother opening his eyes,

“Sleep well, Hank.”

“Yeah, you too.”

-

Hank jolts awake and everything is pitch black. There is a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Had he fallen asleep during watch?

“Hank.” 

No. Connor. He is home. He can hear Sumo huff in irritation from the end of the bed.

“ _ Hank _ .”

His voice is thick with sleep when he replies, “Wha?” 

“I found out what happened.”

His brain finally caught up with his eyes, and Connor is looming over him.

“What the fuck, Connor?”

“Language, Hank.”

“In my own fucking house. What time is it, you deranged owl? Why aren’t you asleep?”

Hank would almost swear Connor’s eyes are glowing, but whether it is from excitement or magic he isn’t sure.

“It is 3:24 am and I don’t sleep.”

“Oh. Of course, you don’t.”

“I brought the lantern and matches. I would like to talk to you about this.”

“Jesus! Christ! Okay, okay.” Hank hauls himself up and is grateful that he bothered to put a shirt on going to bed. The sudden flickering light causes Hank to cover his eyes until the strain dissipates. Then there’s a sudden dip in the bed as Connor sits next to him and Hank takes a deep breath.

“Alright, lay it on me.”

“The spell in the wards was specifically designed to attack constructs. It is actually a rather plain but powerful dispel. It should have rendered any construct passing through it into inanimate object.” It is funny how a tiny frisson of panic occurs even though Connor is standing right there and telling him this. 

“But you’re not?”

“That would be because I’m currently using your magic.”

Hank isn’t really sure how he chokes but he does anyway.

“Fuck!?”

Connor blinks, clearly attempting to process Hank’s response. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”   
Hank swears a blue streak for a whole minute.

“Okay, okay. So I replaced your magic with my magic. So what, I should avoid touching you or something? Will you ever recover what you lost from the wards?”

It is hard to not take responsibility for this whole thing, Goddamn Dick Gavin Reed.

Connor looks honestly puzzled when he says, “No?”

“Throw me a bone here, Connor. I know as much about magic as you do about slang ”

“Oh.” Connor frowns as he thinks for a moment. “No, I will never gain back my magic because I never had any to begin with. The magic that powered me prior to this was given to me by a Fae who goes by the name Kamski.” 

“Should we take you back to him?”

Connor hesitates before looking at Hank squarely.

“To be perfectly honest, I'd rather we didn't. He is not very... pleasant. To answer the rest of your questions, you need not be wary of touch. Unless I am dangerously low on magic, it's doubtful that my body will automatically try to refuel it.“ 

“Ah, well. That's good.”

“So if you're like, I don't know, a barrel and you got completely emptied,” If that was the first metaphor Hank goes for, it was official he drinks too much, “How much magic do you have in you right now?” 

Connor’s eyes close for a brief moment, “You filled me with enough of your magic to last at least a week.” 

Oh. 

Hank hasn’t really considered the possibility that his words could be put into that unfortunate combination. Never has he regretted a choice of metaphor more. He is glad for the low light because he could feel his face burning. He is probably completely crimson.

“I should not need to be filled with any more of your magic for a while, barring any major casting.”

“Good. Great. Now Connor, please let me sleep.”  _ And die _ , he mentally added. If Hank sounds a little short, Connor doesn’t seem to mind. The lantern is extinguished, and Hank finds himself despondently staring at the ceiling.


	4. Refuge

It’s nine the next morning when Hank wakes and halfasses a morning routine. Connor offers to walk Sumo around. By the time Hank hears their return, he is out back with a bucket next to the water pump. Several things have gone wrong in the process which is why Hank is washing his face with his undershirt before filling a bucket with some water to throw together… something. Maybe oats. 

“Hank?” The porch’s screen door screeches open.  

“Over here, Connor.” Hank has his undershirt hanging across his shoulder as he presses down on the pump until the pipes shudder. Water pours into the bucket as Connor exits the house, and Hank watches him start down the steps from the porch to the lawn, spot Hank and promptly miss the next step.

Hank can’t help his laughter even as he feels sheepish. 

It’s not hard to see what threw Connor: Hank is hardly presentable with no shirt and only one of his suspenders over his shoulder. He grimaces as he throws on the wet undershirt and goes over to check on Connor.  

“You okay?”

Connor blinks and stares at Hank like he been hit by a ton of bricks before he shooting up from the ground.

“I'm fine, thank you!” 

Hank would worry about concussions if he didn’t know better. 

Connor beelines for Sumo as soon as they’re back in the house. Hank carries in the bucket of water, changes his shirt and goes to the kitchen instead. He ends up making oats and honey, something he had accepted in lieu of a payment for a missing persons. While eating breakfast, he picks up the casting paper on the table and considers it, tracing the sliver of watermark.

He’s distracted in the middle of it as it's hard to not look up and watch Connor trying, while still being uncertain, on how to pet Sumo. With.. whatever that technique is. 

“Jesus, Connor, he’s a dog not a bear trap. Just run your hand down his fur and then start at the top again.”

Connor nods and follows the instructions to the letter, though Sumo, the dumb idiot he is, probably didn’t even notice the change and would have been happy with any kind attention.

He glances at the paper again and his hand slams the table as something mentally clicks. Connor and Sumo are both on their feet and at attention.

“Hank?”

“Uh, sorry. I just- I know what this water mark is from.”

Hank clears the table quickly, scanning for his coat and hat. 

“There’s a warehouse in a abandoned section of the docks that used this mark, but it's a shanty town now last I heard. ”

“Should we bring something for protection?”

Hank disappears to his room, bringing back a shoulder holster, and a piece. Hank lifts it by the handle, “This should do for most situations, you’ll cover me for magic?”

“Of course.”

Hank dons his hat and straps the holster in place. 

“Then we’re in business.”

-

Hank finds a phonebooth and gets a message to Chris just in case, before driving them over to dock warehouses.

When they arrive, Hank finds himself, not for the first time, glad that his car was the age that it was. It doesn't attract much attention. Hank still parks out of the immediate area though; he’d rather not come back to the frame and nothing else. As they walk, Hank can see a surprising amount of people that have collected in the shantytown. Thrown together structures are scattered around the abandoned warehouses. So many of the people are wearing clothing that won’t get them through the winter that is rapidly approaching. It's hard to not feel bitter at the city for resisting meaningful actions until recently, so little so goddamn late. 

Hank can see the specific warehouse they’re looking for, it's in the very back of the workyard, just on the edge of the water. Though the view of the lake is blocked by several abandoned freighters. 

Hank feels his leg hit something, and a small girl stumbles back. He’s able to catch her before she eats it, at least. 

“Oops! Sorry, sweetheart! Didn’t mean to almost squish ya.”

After he’s sure she’s stable, Hank crouches a bit. No need to scare her. 

She slowly blinks, looking uncertain before giving a small smile.

“It’s okay.” Her voice is so soft, the reply almost doesn’t register. 

Connor gently lays a hand on Hank’s shoulder and he quickly looks between Hank and the girl. And it's only then Hank notices she has completely black irises. Coupled with the fact that she was slow to give responses and hesitantly trying to mimic Hank's smile, he wasn’t sure how he missed it. She's a Changeling. 

Despite the generally held truths about Changelings, Hank had found that Changelings themselves just want to be loved and cared for. Surprise. 

The young girl reaches out and tugs on the bottom of Hank’s tie before running her fingers over it. She gives a nod like it met some sort of requirement for ties. 

“What do you think? It check out?”

“It’s colorful. I like it.”

A stamp of approval Hank would wear with pride. Cole always had Hank picking out the ugliest pieces of clothing for similar reasons. 

Hank tries to keep his smiles from becoming sad,“Thanks!” 

While on the force, Hank had had a case about five years ago involving a traditional Fae kidnapping. The case had been awful but mostly because of how badly people had treated the Changeling. She had been so confused and frightened. Hank is just glad he had followed up on her and made sure she got into a Fae friendly home. 

“Hank?” Connor’s voice rouses Hank from his brief reminiscence. He sounds almost concerned. 

As Hank stands up, all his alarms go off. The street had become nearly vacant.

“Connor, where did all the people go?”

“I- I’m not sure. I thought there was an event or something but-” Connor trails off uncomfortably.

“Or something. I think.” Hank mutters darkly.

“Alice! Come here.” 

There’s a woman near the warehouse and every inch of her body language screams coiled tension. Alice looks up at Hank as though she was struggling for words.

She settles on a just as soft, “Bye.” 

“Yeah, you have a good one” Hank tips his hat and watches as the girl runs into the warehouse. 

The woman speaks as soon as the little girl is out of view.

“You don’t belong here. What did you come here for?” For as gruff as the words sound, her voice is full of warning and concern.

Hank holds as still as possible, slouching a little more than normal. He moves forward a few steps, hands up placatingly.

“Just to talk.”

“We’ve talked, what else do you want?” Her tone shifts to one of pleading and fear, the pitch almost breaking. Hank can see now that she is clutching something in the pocket of her coat. 

Hank huffs good naturedly, “To actually talk and maybe if I’m lucky, get some answers.” 

Connor makes a thoughtful noise and says a hair too loudly,

“Oh, she’s a construct.”

“Conn-”

Hank’s bones feel frozen. There’s ice in his lungs and his fingers cramp sympathetically as cold settles deep numbings everything. 

The echo of the gunshot brings him back, forcing an exhale out of him that feels like his ribs are crushing in. The gun that she’s holding isn’t pointing at him at all though. 

_ Connor _ .

Hank wildly rips around, barely keeping his balance. It feels like every limb in his body is weighted with lead. Connor is just standing there. His shirt is open and Hank can see his skin ripped like fabric with a splintered hole in the wood below. It’s weeping clear colored liquid down his chest.

Hank tries to speak but nothing comes out, he takes a step forward.

“Don’t move.” 

“He-”

“He’s a construct. He’ll heal himself. Move and I  _ will  _ shoot you.” The tension in her stance dissipates somewhat, though her warning has clear resolve. It’s clear she’s more afraid of Hank than Connor, and with her gun it wouldn’t take much to level the playing field. 

Healing himself takes magic. Fear grips him as every single instinct he has demands he rush forward. Healing a goddamned hole in your chest. That sure as hell qualifies as major casting. 

Footsteps get close to Hank and he can feel as the woman rests the gun against his back, her mistake. Panic subsides as a plan falls into place and It's more than simple to just step sideways, grab her arm and pull her forward while twisting her arm. The gun is relatively easy to confiscate from there.

“Snub nosed revolver. Nice piece” 

The words sound like him. 

Hank feels like someone else is thumbing the chamber, spinning it, and unloading the 5 bullets into his palm as he walks over to Connor. 

Who is slowly sliding to the ground. Pulling in a long slow breath and letting it out, it's all Hank can do to keep steady. Hank kneels next to him. 

Connor’s mouth has the clear liquid leaking out the side of it, the liquid is more watery than blood but it’s quickly drying into crusty flakes. It's all over Hank’s hands, when did it get on his- 

It smells almost minty but that's not right. Tree sap?

“M’ Sorry” The liquid seem to making it hard for him to move his mouth.

“Shit, Connor. You had no way of knowing. Not your fault.”

Hank reaches out.

“Hank, it's not exactly safe to-” Connor struggles around Hank’s name as he speaks.

“And if I  _ don’t _ ?”

Connor looks conflicted, it was enough to know what Hank needed to do. He lays his hand on Connor but there’s no question, no need under his skin. 

Hank’s voice is hoarse, “Connor, don’t screw with me right now.”

Connor looks guilty for a moment before he relaxes and Hank finds himself wondering if this was a wise decision as he’s pulled under current that feels so much worse than before.

 

Hank is now sitting. He’s leaning up against something, and there are voices speaking. 

Hangover really doesn’t cover it, Hank still feels like his body is vaguely to the left of where it should be. He turns and it takes a moment for him to connect that he’s looking at and leaning against Connor’s leg.  

Connor is speaking again and his tone is defensive enough that Hank finds himself tuning in.

“That’s true, but our intentions were to come to ask questions. Filling our gaps in information is the exact reason we came.” 

Hank staggers up to stand and isn’t surprised, when he turns around, that there are an unbelievable amount of guns pointing at them. Huh, looks like they were inside the warehouse now. 

Hank is more than grateful when Connor’s hand grabs at his shoulder, steadying him. There’s a crowd of people, he spots both the woman and Alice. The girl’s head is facing downwards and Hank can see how her brow is crumpled unhappily. There’s also two men, a calm dark-skinned giant and young ginger-haired man, talking to the girl in low, comforting tones. Looks like she has a whole village looking out for her, good. 

His heart squeezes in painful familiarity, it's something about how she’s holding her head or maybe the way her cheek is angled that is just so very much like Cole. The sight is too much. He has to tear his eyes away and look towards the center mass and sees four people standing at the front. 

They’re all wearing dark worker’s clothing with their sleeves rolled up. They’d blend right in with the citizens of the shanty. Two of the men confer nervously in quiet tones, the woman in front is also wearing masculine clothing and giving a murderous stare that would intimidate Hank if his head were screwed on right. The man in front though, he is undeniably the leader both in presence and the others’ deference to him. When he clears his throat, the side conversations hush. 

“Welcome back. You were only out for a minute or two.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Not much to say to that. 

“My name is Markus, and Connor was just explaining to us why you came here.” Markus looks over Hank and looks pained when he spots Hank’s tie, “Sir, that is an extremely hideous tie.”

Even as he insults Hank, the man is so polite that Hank finds his nerves grating a little, “Thanks, I tried. P.I. Anderson. Things all well and good then? Those are just for show?” Hank nods towards the guns still pointed at him and Connor. 

Markus smiles, “Assuming you have no intention of violence, yes. Kara’s actions were a gross mistake.”

Hank looks at Connor who meets his eyes evenly. 

“Yeah, we should be fine then. I’d say it's no problem but I wasn’t the one shot.”

The woman who shot Connor, apparently Kara, pipes up, “I do regret almost killing you but I don’t regret proving a point.” While she looks apologetic, there is still a bit of defiance hanging in her demeanor.

Hank snorts, “If you're aiming to prove a point, I’d recommend using something else than a gun. People don’t learn much when they’re dead. Either way, here you go, pistol packin’ mama. You won’t have the option of shooting anyone without your gun.” Hank managed two steps and is glad Kara closes the rest of the distance and lets him hand her gun back. 

Hank wobbles as he steps back and Connor immediately slides his shoulder under Hank’s arm, holding him up.

The woman next to Markus speaks quickly and sharply, riding right over Markus,

“Why was he so depleted of magic in the first place anyway?” 

“North...”

Hank grinds his teeth, trying to keep his temper, “This, again? He’s right.  _ Here _ . Why don’t you ask  _ him _ what happened.”

North sticks her chin forward aggressively, squaring her shoulders.

“Who the fuck do you think-”

“Everyone, please.” Markus intercedes quickly before continuing over the tension.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank can see Connor hesitating.   

“Connor, go ahead. Ask.” Hank prompts.

Connor looks at him briefly, and Hank is no condition to figure out what _ that  _ expression was, before Connor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a paper.

“Do you know what this sigil is?”

Markus nods but he looks uncertain,“We’re not exactly sure where it came from. For a while we thought that it was just a doorway through the Hedge that we could use but… Josh? Maybe you explain this better.”

The Hedge, Fae had helped make the constructs so it's not surprising that they were affected by their world’s gateway. But it didn’t fit, Hank frowns, why wouldn’t Amanda and the other Fae be aware of something so close to home?

Josh looks surprised but he begins speaking easily, “As far as we can tell it also reminds us of who our souls were before.”

_ Souls?  _

What?

Hank can feel Connor tense, his fingers digging into Hank’s arm but he still asks, 

“What do you mean  _ before _ ?”

Hank hates the pity that settles into the faces of some of the crowd as Josh responses, “As far as we can tell, one of the key ingredients to making us is the energy of creatures of the hedge. Some Fae, some hedge dwellers. We’re different people than they were but their independence and freedom is something that sigil can remind us of.”

Hank doesn’t mean to crack up and start laughing but he does and can feel the vibrations painfully in his face. The hostile gazes on him makes him reply, “Sorry, This case was suppose to be theft. It just- theft, my ass.” When he looks up, Markus is looking at him amusedly. 

“The guild selling you guys is a violation of every single anti-slavery law and worker’s code in the book.”

North looks pointedly at Hank, “Is that so.”

“Yup. Hell, if you guys wanna file, I’ll walk it in myself.”

North and Markus both speak at the same time, 

“What's the catch.” “We would be grateful.” 

“No catch, though I’d consider it a personal favor if you answered a few questions.”

Markus doesn’t even hesitate before he nods and just smiles when Hank asks point blank, “Is the person who killed ‘Grand whatever’ Allen here?”

Markus smile broadens as though Hank had proven him right about something, “Yes.”

North wheels around to look at him, “Markus, what are you-”

“Can I talk to them?” North looks murderous as Hank talks over her.

“No, but I have talked to them in depth and I do know what happened.”

“Okay, so why did they murder him?”

“Because he deserved it.” North flatly responds.

Hank rolls his eyes and regrets when the room swims, “I mean, sure, I don’t doubt it but I’d like to know what that means.”

“Mr. Allen was aware of what the constructs in his service were but was far more interested in what results his experiments produced than the worth of their life. There were other incidents but I imagine you get the picture.”

Hank grimaces, “Yeah.”

He open his mouth again but it is at that moment that the warehouse door slams open and Perkin’s voice echoes through the room. The tension in the room skyrockets.

“Hank! So glad you pulled through for me!”

Loose ends connect for Hank, that  _ bastard _ .

Hank pulls his pistol out and fires a warning shot into the ground in front of Perkins before anyone in the room can move. The reverberations do nothing for the piercing pain behind Hank’s eyes. 

He could hear Kara, “I thought you said that you should only use guns when-”

Hank cut her off. “It was a possibility I can’t say I wouldn’t welcome.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Perkins but he can hear constructs moving behind him. Hopefully quietly escaping. 

“You were in the car?”

“Yeah, neat little move you pulled yesterday. Thanks for going home, it made the tracking spell a lot easier to place.”

Hank watches as  trigger men follow Perkins through the door.

“And now I’m going to collect my merchandise.”

“They aren’t goddamn  _ merchandise.  _ They’re people-”

Hank cuts himself off when Perkins’ face only becomes more smug. 

“You could at least try to not take such pleasure out of actual slavery, you rat-faced bastard.” The complete lack of respect and empathy had Hank snarling. 

“A mercenary with a sense of justice  _ for monsters _ how quaint-”

Perkins looks over Hank’s shoulder and expression goes enraged in moments, “They’re escaping! Stop them!”

Connor leans forward, raising one hand, “I’m afraid that's not going to happen.”

And with that Connor charges forward, hand igniting with a low blue glow, with apparently no care to the goons with rifles or whatever Perkins was casting at him. Hank can feel years of his life leave him as he swears and quickly fires taking out the knee of one of the armed Pinkertons. 

All hell breaks loose.

The quiet movement of the constructs behind him breaks out into screams and the thunder of running feet. Hank hastily dives for cover behind a nearby crate, losing his hat in the process. His eyes dart around the room, taking random shots where he can. Adrenaline floods his veins, his heart a pounding thud in his chest, he can feel the cold sweat rolling down the back of his neck and having to overcompensate as his eyes refuse to properly focus.The cracks of each shot fired is compounded by the echoes that ricocheted off nearby walls like live rounds, the intensity of the sudden firefight dazing him. 

He isn’t ready for the lightning.

It blasts past him, burning the edge of the crate, and the noise of it splitting through the air is deafening. It is so close it feels like needles scraping past his skin. Hank blinks rapidly as his eyes as the imprint of the flash block his vision. 

The smell of ozone becomes suffocating.

He is suddenly choking on smoke, ash, mud, but the smell of burning bodies, cooper scent of blood and bitterly sour magic in the air still fills every single breath. His skin crawls with dirt and rain that has long since stopped being just water. The explosion, there had to be a shelling.

Where was Fowler? He had lost his helmet. Where was his fucking rifle?

Hank is immediate disoriented when he see walls around him.

Where is- 

No.  **Focus.**

A bullet ricochets off of thin air in front of Hank’s face and he puts another bullet into a Pinkerton’s chest. Hank glances backwards and catches a glimpse of North’s hands held forward, hair floating in curls upwards, ominous blue light spilling forth from her eyes.

“Thanks,” Hank calls over his shoulder. A growl is all he gets in reply as she casts flames, flinging them across the room. God the smell of Ozone is never going to leave his clothing after this. 

Hank spots Connor and if Hank ever had something he’d like to keep picture perfect in his head, it’s Connor in a fight, serene as ever, without a scratch on him. He’s leaping, in a beautiful fluid motion mid-air. His foot forcefully connecting with Perkins’ face, who goes down across the floor in a spilled mess, the spell he was casting sputtering out and leaving a putrid smear across the ground. 

The fight goes downhill from there for the Pinkertons. 

After a few minutes, the room is finally silent save for Hank’s heavy panting. It smells like the front, the air bitter to breathe. Hank tries inhaling through his mouth but he can taste trench mud when he does that. 

_ Blasted goddamned magic. _

Connor calls from across the room, hands still smoking, “We need to leave. **Now.** ” 

“Sure, let me get right on that.” Hank lowers himself to ground which feels like it is spinning. 

North glares at Hank, “What is going on with your human? His magic is not replenishing.”

North double takes, “That really is an ugly tie.”

“The human is also right here and gee thanks.” Hank may have slurred the end, he rubs his hand over his face. He can’t help the flinch when he realizes that his hand are slightly sticky and still smell like mint.

Connor recovers Hank’s hat off ground, walking over as he dusts it off.

“I’m not completely sure. He doesn’t use magic, It's possible his stamina is purely dependant on natural regeneration.” Connor pauses to think, “Hank, are you experiencing emotional turmoil?”

Hank growls his response, “You might say that.”

Connor makes a sympathetic noise, drops the hat onto Hank’s head and helps him on to his feet. The room goes from spinning to a blur. 

“That is part of the problem as well, then.”

It's probably a bad idea but Hank asks anyway, “Hey, North, right? You think everyone got out okay?”

She almost sounds worried, vulnerable when she responds, “They should be, everyone knew where they should go in an emergency.”

After a beat she asks, “You’re not going ask where that is?”

Hank makes a bitter sharp humorless laugh, it hurt in more ways than one, “Yeah, sure. After this success? You feel free to mail that paperwork. You can pay me a social visit after we get this mess fixed”

Hank finds himself leaning on Connor with almost his full weight and Connor is just taking it as if it were nothing. 

“What will you do with them?” He doesn’t even sound out breath. Hank deliriously wonders if Connor could carry him. 

“These assholes? We’ll take care of them.”

Hank can feel Connor gearing up to ask another question. 

“Connor, this is the moment where it's just better not to ask.”  

North snorts, it's probably the closest thing she has to an expression of humor. When Connor still isn’t moving, probably looking at her, she finally replies,

“Just go, take your human with you. We’ll be fine.”

Connor easily walks Hank to the car, dropping him into the passenger seat. 

Connor gently lays his hand on the car and it starts. Didn’t even need the hand crank. 

Hank wheezes a laugh, “Shit, Connor, you could do that all this time?”

“When we met, you showed discomfort at the concept of magic. I did not want to distress you.”

Hank feels himself fading, “Aw, hell. It's never bothered me when it's you casting it.” And with that he is out. 


	5. Hedge

Hank disjointedly wakes, his hand is being licked and Sumo’s soft whimper help him push the echoes of screams that sound like Fowler out of his head. He is home.

Hold up.

How did he get home?

The room is dark and there's a low lit lantern on the night table.

Hank sits up in bed and he feels… better.

Or at least he feels like he had had a serious hangover rather than him feeling like he’s currently _having_ one.

There is a soft knock, and Connor is greeted by Sumo as soon as he opens the door. He is carrying a pitcher of water and what looks to be an evening copy of the news like Hank is some sort of rich retiree.

Hank croaks,“Thanks Jeeves.” Oh, Jesus, he is parched. Connor sits on the bed and tables the newspaper. Hank goes through about three cups of water before he can comfortably get out, “What day is it?”

“It's still Saturday, it is however 8:32pm. You slept for most of the day.”

“That was a lot worse than the other ones. Did I screw something up?” Before, Hank had felt like he had sprinted with clogged sinuses, but this had been something else.

Connor looks uncomfortable, maybe even embarrassed, “Nothing that you knew to do.”

Hanks snorts humorously, “That’s a yes, then.”

He winces, “When Amanda said that you had no experience with magic, I hadn’t realize the full implications of what that meant.”

“Alway excited to find new depths of ineptitude.”

Connor ignores Hank’s comment and continues, “I believe you were hit with a few issues at the same time which caused a rather adverse reaction.”

Hank mutters, “To say the least.”

Connor holds up three fingers and ticks them off as he speaks, “Larger quantities of magic must be used proportionally slower to their size, depleting magic reserves can cause physical damage to the body, and extreme emotions and shock makes magic regeneration slow or even stop completely.“

“I don’t regret doing it, though.”

Connor goes blank and Hank isn’t sure if he stuck his foot in it or not until Connor looks down. He can see the curve of a small smile.

“I do not regret it either, but I- I wouldn’t have died.”

He touches a hand to his chest, “If I had bled out, I could have still been resuscitated. However, if I was without magic for too long , it would have been very likely that I would have permanently lost my memories.” His hand then tightens into a fist, “I wouldn’t have died, but I would have been erased.”

Connor pauses again and it's clear he’s trying to assure the worry that Hank is sure is on his face. “It would have been much more serious if it had pierced my heart.” He’s just... not doing it very well. All Hank could picture was the human organ jammed into a wood box, like in that Snow White film. Except Hank actually knew what a human heart looked like.

“What? Like an actual heart?”

“No. The closest approximation is that it's actually me, even if my body completely loses its magic-”

He stopped short.

“I suppose it's possible that it contains my soul. lf what Josh said is true.”

“Oh. Well I guess we lucked out then.” Hank tried for casual and missed it by a few miles.

Connor nods in agreement before speaking again, “Speaking of someone who did not luck out...”

He grabs the evening post and flips to page.

“Perkins is apparently alive, well enough, and under multiple charges for murder, extortion and theft.”

Hank took the paper and appreciates the picture of Perkin looking like a bruised grape. “Oh really? Who’d he murder?”

“One Grand Enchanter Allen of Guild Taliesin Vitae, if you can believe it.”

Hank put on his best “I’m very shocked” face, “Say it ain’t so!”

“The motive is apparently that Mr. Allen had been close to finding out that Perkins had been selling constructs on the side. Apparently it was no casual turn of phrase when he said ‘ _my_ merchandise.’”

Hank hums in thought as he skims the article, “Explains the new cigarette case and the car, too. He was captured after instigating a shootout with ruffians from the docks, got several Pinkertons killed. Serves you right, you bastard. North did a good job with this, ruined him from the bottom up.”

When Hank grins at Connor, he looks distracted and a little distressed.

“Connor?”

He startles before he speaks changing the subject abruptly, “I am- aware that it’s quite late but I was wondering if you would be willing to accompany me to visit Amanda and- and Kamski.”

It is late but Hank has also spent most of the day asleep, he isn’t about to go back to sleep in two hours.

“Sure, why?”

“Amanda and the guild were the one who hired you but Kamski actually paid half of your fee. It would be sensible for you-”

Hank cut Connor off who blinks rapidly in surprise, “And while all of that may be all well and true. I’ve already agreed and I wasn’t asking about why _I_ was going.”

Connor blinks rapidly as he looks blankly at Hank before looking sheepish, “I have some questions I would like to ask Kamski. I don’t wish to go alone.”

“You’ll let me know when if you wanna leave?”

Hank is meet with a look of unguarded gratitude from him, it makes his heart skip a beat and warm.

“I will, Thank you.”

Hank lets Connor drive, Hank still felt off enough to not refuse him when he took the keys.

The drive was quiet, and lengthy. When they could finally see the house’s silhouette against the night’s sky, it took another five minutes before they actually could pull into the drive.

It’s when Hank sets foot out of the car that he notices it. Everything just feels _wrong_.

There’s a pressure in the air that is so thick it feels like a solid weight is resting on Hank’s neck.

They’re greeted at the door by a thin blond woman. She’s stilted in her moves like she has a puppeteer who keeps forgetting to animate her. She cordially introduces herself as Chloe, even as she looks right through Hank and Connor rather than at them. There’s no offer to take Hank’s coat and hat and he wouldn’t have taken the offer anyway, rather he’s more than happy to just remove his hat in a bare minimum gesture of respect. Chloe guides them through the hallway where Hank can see at least seven other women who all look exactly the same. He can’t shake feeling that he’s being stared at even though none of them look up from what they are doing.

They end up in what looks like an office and Chloe gives them both a full smile that's completely out of place, and shuts the door. The office is empty and Hank wants to laugh, say ‘good joke’, and _leave_.

Before that thought could gain any momentum, the door opens and Hank can only assume the person who walked through is Kamski. Amanda is nowhere in sight.

Kamski is on the small side of average but he makes up for it with presence. He is an ash grey Fae with completely black eyes and long dark hair pulled up. Hank feels something in him die as he realized that Kamski is wearing nothing but a robe that shifts from solid black to shear along the arms and lower legs.

“Well, _Connor_ , I see you brought a friend.” He pauses for a second too long, not even looking at Hank.

“Hello, Hank.”

Well, Hank feels threatened. Hank is using all of his self control not to just grab Connor and run for the car, so he only manages a smile in response, one so stiff that it would give Connor a run for his money.

Connor gives a little half bow. It’s robotically formal.

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you, if you have the inclination.”

Kamski steps so close to Connor that if Connor adjusts his stance he’d probably kick him.

“Well, we both know how you are. Alway asking too many questions.”

Connor blinks passively. It's a deliberate and slow motion, but Hank can see how tensely he’s holding his arms at his side.

“Well duine óg, ask away.” Kamski moves away and leans on the edge of his desk.

“Constructs have souls?”

Kamski smiles too wide, “Thats a statement with a question mark. Not a question.”

Connor’s cheek minutely twitches, his back as stiff as a washboard. Kamski just looks amused, leaning his head forward like a predator smelling for blood.

It's really all he can do, Hank shifts his weight, softly scraping his shoe across the flooring. Connor glances towards him and whatever he sees has him clear his throat and continue.

“Do constructs have souls?”

Kamski is still smiling, and it still doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Is that what they’re saying now? How romantic. Human philosophy has such a predilection for fantasy. Don’t you think, _Connor_?”

Connor is carefully regarding Kamski like a live bomb.

“Who was I?”

Kamski’s expression becomes wild, vindicated.

“I _don’t know, Connor_. You’re a very different person than you were even a week ago. Even two days ago. You just don’t learn from your questions, do you?”

Kamski take a step forward and it's hard to not to back up in response.

“For example, I’ve heard of a story, a true one! Straight from the source. Times are difficult. Somewhere a man can’t support his family, so he and his wife agree to send the boy and her away.”

Hank’s lungs freeze.

“But they don’t trust the right mage and the spell that should have sent them away makes the man’s family disappear instead. The foolish human mage doesn’t sends them to the sunny coast house they intended. Instead they make it to shady skies glimpsed through light trees, so close but so far away. And they _miss_ the man so much. That’s not very fair now, is it?”

What. The. Hell. How the fuck did he know that-

“Now hold up a goddamn minu-” Hank might as well have not spoken. It is like his words aren’t even heard, aren’t even spoken. Hank can only watch as Connor has the realization of who exactly the man is in the story.

“No, that’s not fair at all. So let’s change the story. Let's say that a starry-eyed youth meets this man and learns of this wrong. The youth then heroically saves the wife and son. Selflessly sacrificing to reunite the family. Does that sound like a fitting end to this story to you?” Kamski slowly moves across the room until he is once again inches from Connor. Hank can’t move. He _can’t_ speak.

Connor’s voice catches in his throat, when he speaks, it’s in a whisper, “Yes.”

Kamski’s wide wide smile splits slightly open revealing rows and row of teeth. He breathes out the word.

“Fascinating.”

Hank sees the impact through Connor’s body before he realizes that Kamski’s hand has even moved. Every inch of Hank screams silently as he watches Kamski almost lovingly stare at Connor as his flesh unravels until it's gone. Connor’s hand is raised. His mouth is slowly opening in soft surprise, before his expression freezes as a blue light ripples quickly from his finger and feet to the center of chest.

Kamski pats Connor gently on the chest, whispering “It will be alright, dear. We’ll try again.” Before he steps past them and walks to the door. Hank struggles but he can’t even move a finger.

_Connor_

“I’m sure you can escort yourself out, Hank. You can expect a bonus on top of your original payment to come in the mail. Thank you for you _excellent_ service.”

The door closes and Hank feels his muscles suddenly become liquid and he drops to the floor with a magnificent thud, his hat sliding away from him. The sudden release has Hank choking and wheezing, tears streaming down his face, as he struggles to pull in a breath.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He quickly scrambles up, reaching out and clinging to Connor’s petrified form. Hank can’t seem to catch his breath, but still swears when he cuts himself on Connor’s arm. The wood of his body is decaying, wait no, it was hardening, shifting colors and textures that looked like polished gems. The wood looks like it's fossilizing.

A soft noise has Hank whirling around, but there is nothing there.

“What do I do?”

Hank scrubs tears off of his face. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck do I do?”

The soft noise happens against but this time Hank feels it under his hands.

It's like.. A pulse.

 _His heart_.

Hank pulls Connor’s shirt open and he can see in the center of chest a jagged almost triangular piece of obsidian that looks like a natural chip of a rock. This is what Connor is reduced to.

Hank just looks, hand hesitating.

“Oh what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” He can’t keep the despair out of his voice.

Another pulse rips through Connor’s frame and it feels _desperate_.

Hank cries out something incoherent and his hands are clawing at the stone before he can think it through. He can feel as the roughness of Connor’s stone body cut his hands but he still smiles like a lunatic when the stone slips from its socket.

The whole of him is only slightly smaller than Hank’s palm, and glows with a soft, blue light around the edges. He’s warm to the touch and Hank can feel the relief emanating from him.

Hank turns and he flees. There’s no way to pretend like he isn’t. As he runs through the hall, he can hear Chloe’s voice echo through the hall, “-been three calls from the Guild and Ama-.”

Hank rips through the front door and keeps running until he gets in the car and starts it with Connor digging into his bloodied palm. Hank watches as that damned house disappears behind them.

“We’re out, Connor, we’re out.” the pulse that shakes through the stone warm and comforting.

-

They stagger through the door to the house and Sumo is whining already. He knows something is wrong, twice in one day.

“I’m sorry, Sumo.”

Hank is hit with how fucking pointless his last two days have been.

“ _Shit_ , I’m so sorry.”

This whole thing has been a comical farce from beginning to finish. Why-

Connor is on the floor next to Hank’s hand when he pulses painfully, _panic_ , the stone is stained with Hank’s blood from his shredded hands. Hank snatches him up off of the flooring.

“Sorry, I’m right here. You’re okay, Connor. I’m sorry”

Hank doesn’t sleep.


	6. Crate

It was a week, a full miserable week with Connor essentially living in Hank’s shirt pocket, of Hank reading every magic book he can get his hands on, of Hank understanding exactly how complicated construct bodies were, of Hank realizing just how expensive they were, before a goddamn crate and a letter comes in the mail.

It comes to his office and Chris actually takes the bus all the way out to Hank to tell him.

The crate is as big as a coffin with the letter nailed to the lid. It takes self control not to start narrating what he’s looking at to Connor just out of habit, Jeffery has been kind enough this week. He doesn’t need Hank looking like he’s lost it.

He opens the letter, and reads it, twice. It feels like a trick. Too good to be true.

It’s from Amanda and it’s short and sweet. Stating that Kamski now has his hands full and would be for a while with legal violations that the guild was burying him under and that Amanda would appreciate Connor’s presence when Kamski inevitably makes things worse.

It is the most unbelievable rug sweep Hank has ever witnessed in his life.

No mention of Kamski causally trying to kill Connor or why Connor is in the possession of Hank to begin with.

In the crate is a plain wooden construct body. Hank leans over the edge of the crate staring. Chris does the sign of the cross. Fowler is hovering at Hank’s elbow.

“Hank, why do you have a wooden doll the size of a grown man in your office?”

“Not now.”

This could be a trap.

Screw it. Hank pulls Connor out.

“Does this feel safe to you?" Hank asks the warm stone as he places him near the construct body.

“Oh good, he’s lost it.”

“That’s nothing new, Jeffrey.” Hank distractedly retorts.

There’s a moment where nothing happens and then the stone pulses. He feels... confident. Well as confident as someone could expect a rock to feel.

Hank takes a breath, picks Connor up and pushes him into the chest of mannequin. The stone slides in with only the smallest of resistance. Hank keeps his hand there.

Fowler leans forward, frowning,“What the hell, Hank.”

The next second has Chris and Jeffrey shouting as the doll violently seizes under Hank’s hand. The doll’s mouth drops open and ribbons emerge from it and begin wrapping around the body. The ribbons tighten until they seamlessly blend into each other and Connor’s features begin to emerge.

Finally Connor pulls in a desperate breath, eyes flying open.

“Hey there.” Hank is grinning, he’s not sure when he started.

“Hank.” He says it so fondly. Connor then smiles and it’s as terrible as it always has been. Hank hauls him up to hug him.

Wait.

Connor is very naked.

So Hank instead pulls off his jacket quickly, lays it over Connor’s shoulders and then hugs him.

Connor just keeps smiling through Hank’s manhandling of him and relaxes easily into the hug.

“Hank, what the hell is going on?” Right. Jeffery.

The explanation turns into a full blown account of the events from a week ago, with Chris and Fowler making increasingly incredulous noises. Connor is sitting in Hank’s chair now under a pile of three jackets. He nods at key points of the story when Fowler looks at him to see how full of bullshit Hank is.

After the story Hank moves the letter to his desk, everyone notices when a check flutters to the ground.

Hank picks it up and dumps it on the desk. It’s for five thousand dollars. From Kamski, no doubt. This job has been the most Hank has ever made from a case, hell this is the most amount of money that he had ever seen, let alone handled, and every penny feels like blood money.

“Finally going to pay some of your rent, I take it?”

Startled, Hank lets out a bark of a laugh, but finds himself staring at the check.

The Hedge…huh.

Dark skies with white trees. That is the only place that Kamski could have been referencing to when he had spoken of Hank’s family. Hank had said as much when he had told his story to Chris and Fowler. There's a long and convoluted explanation for what and how that world intersects with Earth but in the end, it wasn't easy to get in to and it was even harder to get out of.

Money doesn’t mean much in Fae’s realm. He may as well begin to pay off some debts. It just.. feels like defeat but maybe that is just the persistent fear that maybe he would need a large sum for a solution, that he _just_ doesn’t see yet. Getting humans out of the Hedge is no easy feat even with government assistance.

Fowler elbows Hank but his smile is almost kind, “Take your time. I was _mostly_ joking… I'd need everyone in the building to pay a couple months rent to be solvent again.”

Hank smiles, it probably looks wobbly as hell, “Charity huh? Why didn't you tell me you didn't

want my money?” The elbow he gets this time actually hurts, but the way Jeffrey says jackass makes it worth it.

Fowler and Chris both leave and Hank is pretty sure Fowler caught Hank looking at Connor one too many times. He’ll have to thank him later with a bottle of something nice... and probably rent

Hank wanders back to Connor, who's looking contemplative.

Hank doesn’t resist the urge to touch him just to make sure he’s really there; Hank grips his shoulder affectionately.

“There’s... a lot to sort through.”

Hank snorts, “Yeah”

“It didn’t- I didn’t feel like he was really talking to me did it?”

Hank sober at the memory,“No, not really.”

Connor frowns suddenly like he has tasted something bitter. His voice is hesitant as he speaks.

“Your family is in the Hedge. Taken by Fae, by _us_ … does my presence distress you? Should I leave?”

“What?”

That threw Hank for a loop. Connor so earnestly worried when he looked up at Hank.

“We kidnapped your family fro-”

Hank laughs more bitterly than he intended at that.

“Aww hell, Connor!  You didn't steal my family from me. Pure human stupidity and desperation practically special delivered them straight into the Hedge. Molly and I both should have known better than to trust that shitty fraud and that Detroit police should have just done their goddamned job and not-” Hank stops, physically waving away that line of thought, “Regardless, we'll get them back, and what with the Fae Accords in place, there's a good chance they'll be more than well taken care of. Molly is still going to be pissed though.”

Hank grins at what her expression will be like when his ex-wife gets back.

“Honestly just to know-” Hank couldn’t stop his voice from breaking. _Months_ of fighting off the images of their bodies rotting in a field in goddamned middle of nowhere and then _months_ of wishing he could just find their bodies if nothing else. “-where they are and that they even able talk about me?” Hank's vision begins to swim and he gives a wet chuckle.

“It's a relief.”

“Oh... That's good.” Connor looks a little lost and wistful in a way that has Hank landing a hand on Connor’s shoulder again, giving it a squeeze. Connor looked back up and he looked… determined and so very hopeful.

“We’ll get them back, Hank.”

Jesus how close had Hank come to losing _everyone_ . How lucky was he that this man had walked into his life. Hank found himself opening his mouth to say _something_ , anything to keep him around.

“Can I take you back home? Get you in some clothing. You can practice petting Sumo. We can figure out where we go from here later.”

Hank steps back and holds out his hand to help Connor up.

“Interested in hanging around with an old man, Connor?”

Connor gives a lopsided grin before reaching out to take it.

“That sounds wonderful, Detective.”


	7. Epilogue

Its 11:27am on Saturday, September 17th, 1938. It's been exactly 3 weeks, 4 days, and 2 hours since Connor first met Private Investigator Hank Anderson. Hank is currently saying things that Connor deemed as not acceptable for public expression as he shakily undoes his tie for the fourth time in row. Connor knew the cause for this anxiety even if he doesn’t completely understand it. Since being ‘gifted’ another body by Amanda, Connor and Hank had dedicated a minimum of five hours a day to organize the return of Hank’s family.

Its had been a goal Connor tried not to think about, he wasn’t sure what would happen to him when they returned home. If there was space for him to stay. If Hank _even_ wanted him to stay. Connor crushes that thought.

Hank had been correct, even with a government mediator, the negotiation had been halting and contracted. It had taken until earlier this week for Molly and Cole to be released into the care of Detroit's Hospital for Magical and Arcane Injuries for observation. Hank had been quietly elated when he received a letter from Molly with reassurances and appreciation. However Hank’s energy became more and more frenetic as the date of their release approached. Wednesday, Hank had enlisted Connor in cleaning the whole house. Yesterday, he had sent a Connor on an redundant errand and then he had forgotten their laundry in the rain, looked at it through the window, and gone back to bed. Connor wants to ask questions but knew better than to do it before Hank saw his family. However, Connor could keep trying to assist where he could.

“Hank, let me help.”

Connor is careful not to rush him, before he takes the tie from Hank’s hands, who irritatedly huffs.

“I know how to tie a tie, Connor.”

Connor lets his lips curve, “Really, Is that so?”

In response, Hank let out wheezing laugh that shakes his chest. Connor can feel the vibrations through where his hands are touching his chest. It is tempting to keep them there.

“You sarcastic goof.”

Connor begins a traditional windsor knot. It’s the brightest tie Hank owns and it’s delightful how many different colors are present. He lets it slide between his fingers softly.

There’s a moment as Connor can feel Hank’s gaze on him, lingering on details of his face. Connor keeps his face schooled in a focused expression. There is anxiety as Connor did so, Hank seems to notices things about Connor that no one else had before.

When finished, he pats Hank’s chest like he saw a character do in a motion picture that they had gone to. His broad chest is a solid comforting presence and Connor decides it’s a pleasing gesture.

They head out and Hank adjusts his new, far less floppy, hat as he gets into the car.

When they get to the hospital, Hank has an outbreak of nervous gestures and tics. As they wait in front of the building, Hank is grabbing or touching Connor’s shoulders whenever he gets near him as he paces back and forth. He rambles from topic to topic, allowing Connor to interject only the briefest of comments as he generalizes with hyperbolic praise and lambasting everything else. He’s more worried than Connor has ever seen him. Connor really hadn’t considered the full range of human emotions when he had imagined this reunion, that it is possible for Hank to be in this much pain over a desired event.

He pauses looking at the hospital door before turning to grin wobbly at Connor.

“I think you’ll like them, you know? Molly is smart as a whip. Before Black Thursday, she was a journalist, got a college degree and everything. Cole takes after her more than me. I mean, he’s his own person but he’s like that. Too smart for his own good.”

Connor smiles in response assuming he won't have much time to respond although he doesn’t like the implication that Hank isn’t smart.

Whatever Hank was going to say next never leaves his mouth. An ecstatic cry stops the conversation dead in its tracks.

“Dad!”

Suddenly Connor feels like he’s back at the theatre, watching everything at a distance.

A boy under 10 bursts through the hospital door. His face is round and animated with joy, brown eyes vibrant. Hank looks stricken as he inhales sharply, it sounds painful as the noise lodges in his throat. He freezes for nearly a whole second before he nearly breaks into a run, collecting Cole into his arms and lifting him up into a hug.

The boy giggles delightfully, “I missed you!”

A shattered hitching sob is all Hank gives in response. His grip tight and his shoulders tremble as he messily presses kisses to the boy’s head and temple.

“Don’t cry, Dad! You don’t have to miss me anymore, I’m right here!” Small hands pat where they can reach on Hank’s broad shoulders.

Hank’s voice is broken but he’s laughing too when he replies, his face buried into Cole’s shoulder.

“I know, honey. I’m really-” Hank has to stop and shakily exhale, “- _really_ glad to see you.”

A woman in a burnt red coat with streaks of grey in her brown curly hair follows out of the building. She looks happy even with her eyes misted over but she doesn’t join them, rather awkwardly hovering between the hug and the door. Connor realizes his position and his stance mirrors hers. This must be Molly, Hank’s wife.

Cole turns his head to look at her as he continues to pat. He pronounces sagely, “Dad’s sad.”

Her smile is watery as she speaks, “Even if it didn’t feel like it, we were gone for a while, honey bee.”

Cole turns back looking contemplative, “Yeah.”

He then mirrors Hank but on a smaller scale, hugging and pressing his face onto the top of Hank’s head.

“It’s okay, Dad.”

Hank’s weeping quietly begins anew.

When Hank finally composes himself a little more, he rises unsteadily with stiff motions, his hand refusing to completely leave Cole. In two long strides he’s embrace Molly. She hesitates, smacking Hank in the arm before she gingerly wraps her arms around his middle and speak in hushed tones that Connor does not eavesdrop on.  

“Hi!”

Cole must have escaped from the second hug as he stood in front of Connor beaming.

“Are you Connor?”

“Ah.. Yes?” Connor tilts his head, had Hank mentioned him?

“We got a letter from Dad and he was talking about the fact that you weren’t human and you came and helped him so that we could go home and that you got into a fight so Dad had to help you and you defended Dad and that-”

Cole’s excitement is infectious. Connor can’t stop the small smile that was spreading across his face as the child bounced through what was quickly becoming a reenactment. Connor only hopes that his smile is not too lopsided.

The fact that Hank had talked so much about Connor in his letter. It… Connor didn’t have any words for the swell of emotions in his chest. Cole glances behind him. When Connor follows his gaze, it feels like his heart skips. He can see Hank smiling at him and Cole, his expression brimming with warmth. Maybe things wouldn’t change too much. Maybe Hank wouldn’t mind if Connor stuck around for a just _little_ longer.

Hank drives them all back home after that. The conversation in the car comes in waves as the event of the day causes the family to alternate between exhaustion and excitement. Connor lets the conversation wash over him as he struggles to understand how he can feel so a part of something, but at the same time completely isolated.

Connor tunes back into the conversation when Hank begins to sound strained.

Molly is smiling in way that suggest that she is joking, but the effect of whatever she said has Hank grimacing. His expression shuttered.

“Molly, please.” His knuckles tight on the wheel. “You just got back. Don't make me do this again.”

Molly’s smile awkwardly slides away.

“I have to go where I can support me and Cole. Hank- we’ve talked about this. You know I don’t want to leave the city any more than you do.”

Hank makes a noise of frustration.

“I'm not saying- I understand why you don’t want it long term. I get it but I’ve got money now. Just if things aren't going in your favor, let me and Fowler rent you a place for a while, okay? Make sure you’re _really_ out of options. Please, just give me some time before we have that conversation again.”

Molly regards Hank with bemused shock for a moment.

“Yeah, okay.”

By the time everyone is home, even Cole is subdued. That doesn’t stop him from letting out a shriek of joy and collapsing onto a near howling Sumo.

Molly, Hank, and Connor begin planning out issues that need to dealt with and loose ends to worry about. Hank cuts off mid-sentence standing up, “Sorry, it's too quiet. Cole?”

“Oh.” Connor could see Cole had fallen asleep on top of Sumo in a position that only a child could sleep in.

Connor galances between Molly and Hank. He wasn’t sure how he missed how exhausted they must be, as they look like they are near swaying on the spot.

Hank and Connor both spoke and their sentences colliding.

“We should probably-” “Perhaps you both-‘

Molly laughs as Connor shares a grin with Hank.

“How to you two get through doors without running into each other”

Hank is laughing too now.

“Well one time, Connor practically tackled me to prevent me from walking through a door.”

Molly has an eyebrow raised at Connor. He stutters out a affonded explanation.

“There were wards! And you did the exact same thing earlier, Hank.”

Hank and Molly are cackling. Connor is lost for a moment before he realizes Hank had been _teasing_ him. Connor is smiling as they wind down and Molly is wiping her face.

“Aren’t you two a pair!”

Hank is smiling fondly at Connor when Molly slaps his shoulder.

“Alright big guy, get your son on the couch.”

Hank hefted up Cole from the ground and he doesn’t even stir.

“Like hell I’m putting you two on the couch.”

Whatever Molly tiredly says in response is lost as their discussion trails off as they walk into Hank’s room.

It's confusing when Hank returns but with pillow and blanket.

“I thought you weren’t having anyone sleep on the couch.”

The pillow and blank get thrown on the bed, “I don’t mind it.”

Which solves none of Connor’s current confusion,“Why couldn’t you all sleep in your room. There’s room for you, isn’t there?”

“Eh, it's a little awkward to sleep in same bed with Molly now.”

“But isn’t she your wife?”

“Oh, no. She’s my ex-wife.”

Connor looks at him blankly,

“A what?”

“Uh well, we married and then decided it really wasn’t working out, so we got unmarried.”

Hank looks genuinely confused and a little nervous as to why this is important and Connor can’t help the bubble of emotion that's rapidly swelling in his chest, or the intensity with which he’s staring at Hank. Connor can feel his self control disappearing.

“She was my wife and now she’s not? I mean- Whoa!”

Something snaps, and Connor yanks Hank by his vibrant tie until they were face to face, inches apart.

“Humans can do that?” Connor sounds breathless, his eyes seem to be drawn to the details of Hank’s mouth and that endearing, distracting gap in his front teeth. Connor then glances up, and _really_ looks at Hank from under his lashes.

Connor can practically see Hank’s expression clear with understanding, his mouth opening in a soft unspoken ‘oh’.

Connor tugs on his tie again, and kisses Hank. It’s more of a crush of mouths, causing Hank to let out another surprised noise that Connor can _feel_ . Hank’s hand reaches up to rest below Connor’s jaw and adjusting the kiss. Their mouth properly slide together and Connor can then taste the stale coffee Hank drank this morning. He has no idea what he’s doing, he isn’t really sure of much except of how much he really _really_ wants this. Whatever Hank is willing to let this be.

He resists the urge to cling to Hank as he steps back. He’s glad for the distance when he looks at Hank. Who is completely flushed, absently trailing his thumb against the corner of his mouth.

“Connor, what the hel-”

Connor blurts out, “I’m sorry. I’m not sorry, and I would like to do that again.”

“Please.” Hank suddenly looks mortified at himself, holding his hands up, “Wait wait wait, shit hold on.”

Hank runs both hands through his hair as he sort of aimless paces in a small circle.

“I mean- Connor I haven’t exactly been winning any awards for best partner here.”

“I don’t agree, you’ve been an excellent partner to me.”

Hank chokes oddly, “Romantic partner!”

“Should that be different?” Connor didn’t like that, he was fine with how things were. “I don’t want this to be different, I would just very much like to kiss you.”

Hank is making an odd wheezing noise in response, Connor isn’t really sure what that means. Did Hank not actually want this? Panic is wedging its way in and it's a struggle to loosen his fingers as they try to tighten without his permission.

Connor isn’t sure what Hank sees when he looks at him, but he swears after a moment.

“Shit, see, this is what I’m talking about. Come here, you.”

As soon as Connor is within range, Hank has him in his arms with his head on his shoulder and a strong broad hand rubbing circles into his back.

Hank has a few false starts, “Look this hasn’t been easy for me for.. years now. And this is a whole lot that's new for you.”

He hesitates and his voice gets much softer, “I can’t have you disappearing on me again, okay? Just please just let me hear you say that you're sure.”

Connor’s voice is muffled against Hank’s shoulder,“I have no intention of going anywhere unless you make me leave.”

Hank makes a pleading injured noise that sounds like Connor’s name; it has Connor lifting his head, making sure to make eye contact.

“If there is anything that I am unshakably and completely sure on it is how much I would like to stay here with you for the foreseeable future, and I’d like to kiss you while I do that.” Connor says it as slowly as he can make himself, he’s impatient for Hank to get the message.

“May I do that?”

Eyes red rimmed, Hank is looking at Connor like he’s drinking him in, like he’s equal parts scared, stunned, shocked and so, _so_ fond.  

“Yeah, that sounds nic-”

Appreciating the ease of access, Connor pulls him back down causing Hank’s reply to become soft and then cut off.


End file.
